


You or Your Memory

by TheDoomkitten



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Class Change AU, Gen, Inspired by versegm's Saber Jeanne Headcanons, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDoomkitten/pseuds/TheDoomkitten
Summary: Jeanne d'Arc is a saint. A hero of France who delivered the country from the English on the battlefield without spilling a single drop of blood herself. A holy maiden who burnt away in an inferno of hatred without any resentment in her heart or regrets to leave behind.Jeanne d'Arc, farm girl, warrior, and Heroic Spirit of the Sword, isn't sure how to feel about any of that.
Relationships: Jeanne d'Arc | Saber & Fujimaru Ritsuka
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	You or Your Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verse/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will come a solider  
> Who carries a might sword  
> They will tear your city down  
> O lay, o lie, o lord

"You're going to have to take those off eventually, you know."

You freeze as Roman passes you in the hallway, the suitcases under his eyes fashionably accentuating his zombielike shamble. He hasn't been getting nearly enough sleep recently. But then again, neither have you. "Do you use that line on everyone you take home, Archaman?"

"I meant your bandages, not your clothes." Roman rolls his eyes, which comes across as remarkably laborious.

You glance down at the bandages wrapped around your hands, look back at Roman, and quirk an eyebrow. Really, does he think you're an idiot? "I change them every day, you know. Even I'm not stupid enough to let burns like these get infected."

"That... wasn't really my point, but whatever." He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know, you've had those scars for, what, a month now? And you still haven't told anybody what on Earth happened to give you those, or why you conked out for a solid week and got up covered in new scars, or why Phantom, Fergus, the Gilles-es, Jeanne, Caligula, and Amakusa have been weird about you ever since, or why I swear to god your shadow gives me the stinkeye sometimes  _ AUGH  _ like it's doing now!"

Reflexively rubbing your arms (he  _ burns  _ when you pin him against the wall, fist slamming into his nose over and over while that wicked, triumphant grin sears its way into your heart and sends the entire tower tumbling down after him, but the only thing you feel was pity, not hate, not anger, just compassion), you smile at Roman. "It was a really weird dream, that's all. The bandages are kinda like reminders of... a friend I met there."

(You don't want to die down here.)

"Being frustratingly cryptic is a bad habit to pick up from your Servants, you know."

(But you want him to live too.)

"Hey, I've picked up on some good habits too!"

Roman arches a single eyebrow. "Such as?"

"...being too stubborn to die?"

"You don't sound convinced of that."

"Whatever. See you around, Roman." 

You turn to leave before Roman calls out to you. "Wait! Da Vinci wanted me to tell you..."

"..."

"..."

"...tell me what?"

"Hold on, I'm thinking." He yawns. You wince.

"You really need to get more rest."

"I don't think I'll be taking Little Mx. Sleep-For-A-Week's advice on that matter, thanks."

"I'm serious."

He waves your concerns away, chuckling lightly. "I'll be fine, don't worry."

"That's my line." You cross your arms, eyebrow creeping further up your face. 

"The fact that you can say that paints a really depressing picture. Oh, right!" He snaps his fingers, expression delighted as he finally remembers his mission. "Da Vinci's got a lock on a new Servant. It's a-"

"Saber, right?"

Roman flinches, and if you weren't still mildly disturbed about your new senses, you'd probably have a chuckle at his expense. "How did you know?"

"The air feels blue."

"THAT'S NOT AN EXP-"

"Peace out." You give him a two finger salute while he splutters, turn, and walk away.

* * *

You always stop by the bathroom whenever you're about to summon a new Servant. Something about looking at your reflection makes you feel grounded. Reminds you that you're still here, still human, not just a channel for your Servants to draw power from.

(You remember five weeks ago, when you got back from London. It was a haze, a blur of memory and emotion and pure undiluted terror that left you locked in your room for a full day as you hacked out acrid smoke from your lungs and dreamed of a thousand eyes and- 

You wouldn't let it disappear.

You wouldn't let it disappear.

You wouldn't let  _ them _ disappear.

_ You wouldn't _ .)

You take a closer look at the bandages wrapped tightly around your hands. Really, you don't need them anymore. The burns don't even hurt, they... okay, they  _ do _ hurt a little bit, but that's only when curses are nearby, and you're getting used to the feeling. It's fine. It reminds you of the important things.

Your hands only tremble a little now when you bump into Artoria, at any rate.

(When you first woke up in Chateau d'If, you'd been feverish. Literally, you were burning up to the touch. It was a wonder you even made it to the Phantom's Hall, leaning on the Count and half-delirious. 

You were the most scared you'd ever been then. You're still scared. You wanted to live. You wanted to save them. Somehow you were certain those would be mutually exclusive, and you found yourself caring less and less about that and it horrified you.

And so you stumbled through the tower. You didn't ask if you could lean on his shoulder.

He let you anyway.)

"...the stinkeye, huh?" You laugh to yourself. "Well.  _ Attendre et espérer _ ." Still smiling, you begin to unwrap the bandages, revealing the charred black skin underneath.

* * *

You were right; they're a Saber. Even without Da Vinci's analysis confirming your suspicions, you can feel it deep in your... not gut, exactly. Not heart either. But the certainty resonates through every inch of your being as you watch the Saint Quartz, delicately placed in their slots in the chamber of the Fate system, spin around and convert to pure Spiritron. 

"Noble Phantasm fragments, wisdom spirits, and essence shards are all secured. You're clear!" Da Vinci chirps over the intercom. "Here comes the big one, so get in there and give them a warm welcome."

You nod and push open the door to the chamber without hesitation, just as the gate begins flashing a brilliant molten gold. And out of it steps a young woman, short—although not as short as Mordred, and you are sure they'll be sulking about still being the shortest Saber later—and stocky with a bob of black hair. She's clad in a simple, ragged blue tunic and trousers with a longsword inscribed with five crosses on her hip (you make a mental note to bring her by the chapel when you give her the tour). Taking a look around the room, she sighs, a melancholy smile tugging at her face. "So this will be my new battlefield." She chuckles, an earthy, grounded sound that still somehow feels as light as a feather. "No rest for the weary, I suppose."

You step forward, face splitting with a grin as you offer her a handshake. "Hey. Welcome to Chaldea."

"Are you my master?" she asks, taking your hand and giving it a firm shake.

"Yep."

She nods once, thoughtful. "I see. I am the Servant Saber. 

"True name: Jeanne d'Arc. I look forward to championing your cause, Master!"

As soon as she speaks her true name with a burning conviction that's a stark contrast to her subdued demeanor, you hear Da Vinci squeal with excitement. 

You have a feeling it's going to be a long day.

* * *

As you lead Jeanne—Jeanne Saber? Jaber? Jeanne Alter Alter? Alter Squared?—around Chaldea, what strikes you is her face. It's chiseled and sharp, nothing like the ethereal beauty of Jeanne Ruler (and Artoria and Okita and Nero) or the stark, enchantingly wicked features of Jeanne Alter. Jeanne Saber's face isn't a saint's or a devil's. 

It's a person's.

A rather reserved person, as it turns out. While she chats with you as you take her on a tour through the halls of Chaldea, her responses are simple and short. Not clipped or angry, just... restrained. 

The conversation lulls to a silence in the no-man's land between awkward and comfortable as you continue your tour, eventually arriving at a set of double doors near the center of the complex. "I know it isn't a lot," you say as you open the doors to the church, "but it's all we have. I'm sorry, you'll just have to make do."

Jeanne stands there for a moment, and for the first time, you see something more than a brief flicker of emotion play across her expression. Beaming at the small room, she takes a faltering step forward, lips curling upward in a hesitant smile that slowly grows wider as she ventures further into the chapel. "Master, I..."

"Hey, hey. Are you okay?" For a few moments, you're terrified you've done something wrong, touched something you shouldn't have. There's something deeply broken in her expression, a pang of sadness that rings out to your own heart that's the seed her desperate joy springs from. "I'm sorry, did-"

"No! By God, no." Jeanne shakes her head vigorously, recovering her composure. You pretend you don't notice the brief stream of tears that had flowed down her face. "You have given this soldier the perfect gift, Master, and I will not squander it with any more petty theatrics. I apologize that you witnessed that." Some of the zeal fades from her voice, replaced by a soft melancholy. "It is just... it has been far, far too long since I have prayed to the Lord in a proper church. That is all."

Jeanne Ruler never told you much about her past. It almost seemed distant to her, like a dream. You didn't need to concern yourself with her history when there was a bright future ahead to fight for, she said.

So of course you dug into her past, her heroic journey, her inspiring tale, and its dismal end.

You nod once. Jeanne nods back, and ventures into the chapel. You close the door behind her, mentally counting down until Da Vinci bursts into your comms with-

"I think I've finally figured out who she really is!" she begins babbling, right on time. "You see, after her death, Jeanne's brothers contracted an impostor that..."

"She's the real thing, Da Vinci."

You can hear her head tilt to the side. "How can you be so sure?"

"...you remember how scared I was when we rayshifted out of Fuyuki?"

"I..." There's a small hitch in Da Vinci's voice as she recalls. "Yes. We... we all do." 

You were still a kid back then. Well, you technically still are, but... there's a border between the you Then and the you Now that you try not to think about too much. "I should've  _ died  _ in Orleans. The Berserk servants, and the wyverns, and the fire-" You scoff. "Let me tell you, skeletons have nothing on  _ actual dragons _ . And with everything else, all the pressure, I shouldn't have been able to handle it. 

"But Jeanne was there. And that was enough. There's something about her that just... soothes you. Keeps you from falling into despair, or feeling fear at all." You bark a short laugh. "It's almost scary, looking back on it."

"And this... new Jeanne, she does the same thing?" You can't hear the clack of a keyboard over the connection, but you're sure Da Vinci is scribbling notes at a frantic pace.

"No. It's different." You slowly clench and unclench your fist, exhaling as you recall the terrifying lack of terror in the trenches of Orleans. "This Jeanne... I don't think she could take any of that away. Or if she'd even want to. But she'd ease the burden, and help us push on in spite of it." You  _ don't  _ say that she'd feel it too, no matter what she looks like. That's not your place. You rub the back of your head as you ramble and smile ruefully. "I am really not making any sense right now, am I?"

"Honestly, I am simply  _ fascinated  _ by your intuition more than anything else. Of course all of that was apparent at a glance to a genius such as myself, but I can't help but be curious as to how you can tell!" 

"I can see her." (Phantom. Fergus. Gilles. Jeanne. Caligula. Amakusa. Mercedes. Dantes. The shackles Chateau d'If wrapped around them, choking their soul, eating them whole- you wanted to save them, you had to, bring them back to themselves or something that wasn't another tool to torture you, you had to, you had to, you saw right through the warped fabrications and to the hurting  _ people  _ beneath-) "That's all."

* * *

Jeanne emerges from the chapel an hour later. To her obvious surprise, you're there waiting for her. "Master? What are you..."

"Don't worry, I didn't spend all that time standing guard out here." You laugh. "I just came by to check how you were doing, that's all." (You absolutely did spend all your time standing watch outside the chapel, but at least you spent those hours coordinating scavenging missions and working with Da Vinci to figure out what Formal Craft reagents Jeanne Saber would need to be restored. You're not a  _ complete  _ layabout.) "Now, c'mon. We'll only get to do this once, so we better make it count, yeah?" You begin moving down the hall, gesturing for her to follow.

She doesn't waste a moment, striding after you with measured intent. "I see. Who is our foe, then?"

You open the doors to the simulator, clapping your hands and commanding, "Training Code: Boreal Forest F!" The blank walls of the training room pixilate, morph, and twist into a traditional-style Japanese kendo dojo, complete with a gi for you and Jeanne Saber—who seems ready to jump out of her skin as the new outfit overtakes her simple tunic, gaze casting to and fro as if she's a cornered animal. You wince, mentally filing away that reaction for later. " _ Your _ opponent," you say, holding out a hand, and a wooden shinai pops into existence above it (along with an inexplicable  _ nya~ _ ) and falls into your palm, "is me!"

You wait for the inevitable argument. You were always too fragile, or too unskilled, or too valuable, or too whatever—the only exceptions were Artoria and Archer, who almost seemed to have personal experience with this sort of thing. You just wished somebody would-

"Very well." A shinai is in Jeanne's hand before you can finish your thought. She stares you down, sword extended. "Shall we?"

You grin, charge, and promptly get your ass chopped, diced, roasted, seasoned, garnished, and served back to you on a silver platter. 

In between falling flat on your face or worse from your inevitable defeat, you notice that Jeanne Saber's style is... odd, compared to the other Sabers. The Heroic Spirits of the Sword naturally treat their weapons with respect, almost reverence, and wield their blades with a flourishing, beautiful style that's like watching a magnificent artwork being painted with carnage and blood. Even Artoria, as brutally efficient as she is, holds her blade with a certain pride. But Jeanne Saber holds the shinai in her hands like it's a butchering tool. No more, no less.

Despite the futility, you continue the spar. Your opening comes when Jeanne's breath catches for a moment as one of her strikes almost an hour into the bout sends you reeling. A second wind propelling you forward, you lunge under her guard with a clumsy thrust that would make the living Nero embarrassed after all those sword lessons she gave you in her empire. Regardless of the skill of the attack, though, it strikes home.

Jeanne doesn't flinch, but that doesn't matter. Your job is done. You collapse, splayed out on the floor of the dojo as you pant. You wait for just a few seconds, and- Jeanne does the same thing, taking a knee as she breathes heavily.

"I... see..."

"You understand, right?" you manage to force out, finally feeling the bruises covering your entire body.

"I... I think I do, yes."

"The Incineration left everyone weak- well, weak _ er _ . I don't think any of you are weak." You choke out a laugh. "While we can help you recover, it's... you won't be nearly as strong as you would be during a normal Grail War. The fact that I can so much as hit you  _ once  _ is proof of that. And I'm just a regular human! With weak nerd arms!"

"If your 'nerd arms' are weak, I tremble to think of what you could be capable of should you procure a proper weapon."

You take a moment to process what Jeanne said. Then you erupt into uproarious, belly-deep laughter. "Oh my- did you just make a  _ joke _ , Jeanne?"

"No."

"...oh." Darnit, you-

"Of course I did, Master. I'm not entirely without humor." She snorts, and you can't help but chuckle again.

"The poe-faced delivery sold it. You really got me."

She almost seems startled when you compliment her. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome."

"Although I do mean it. You discount your strength; while you are no match for a Servant," (your shadow would beg to differ), "you would be a tough battle for any soldier in my old army. Do not underestimate yourself, Master."

"That's kinda why we did this, though."

Jeanne quirks an eyebrow, clearly inviting you to explain yourself.

"You said I'm no match for a Servant, and, well. You're right. But look at you! I somehow managed to land a hit on you despite that, and you're just as dog tired as me. The thing is, you'll be facing a  _ lot  _ of enemies out there. Like, a lot. Most of them are going to be way more skilled than me, too. And if I can wear you down when you're depowered, think of what an army of skeletons can do to you even once we restore you. I just don't want you to get hurt because you're assuming you'll be able to mow down a bunch of chumps with no problem. You should've seen Artoria's... well, lack of an expression, but she didn't have an expression in a way that indicated exactly how surprised she was when a bunch of human archers managed to bring her down with some lucky shots in the first Singularity."

"Understood. But I have to ask, Master." Jeanne Saber turns to look directly at you, eyes deadly serious, "You could've made your point some other way. This... place, the simulator? If it can make a place to train through," she sniffs almost disdainfully, " _ magecraft _ , it can surely create opponents. So why spar me yourself?"

"Because I... well, I want to have fun with you. Bond with you. They say a way to a Saber's heart is through the point of a sword, yeah?" You both laugh at that. "And..." You sigh. "Before we strengthen you is the last time we can do it even halfway honestly, you know? Without you holding back. Most of the others were kinda reluctant because they thought they'd break me—and they would've been right if I waited until they were strengthened. It's... kind of a nice surprise to not have to drag you into it."

"It's not like I'm much stronger than you."

That makes you laugh again. "You're a  _ Servant _ , Jeanne."

"This is the body of a Servant, true, but  _ I  _ am not one." She stares at her hand, clenching and unclenching it. "I wasn't much better than you, really. I used to say I had survived by God's grace on the battlefield, but... well. I suppose it was more than that. Which is why I can't deny an earnest maiden like yourself training if you wish it."

You raise a single index finger, catching her attention. "Not a maiden!"

It takes a few moments for that to sink in.

Then Jeanne blushes furiously. "Oh- Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize, you just seemed-"

You also blush when you realize what she's blushing about. Recursive blushing. "Wait, no, it isn't like that, I swear-"

"No need to go into details, I-"

"It really isn't like that, really, I just-"

At least explaining gender to Jeanne doesn't take too much time.

Getting up after the thrashing she gave you, however, does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for almost a month and slowly chipping away at it has been agony, so I'm just posting what I have and hoping feedback will give me the energy to keep going.
> 
> Some housekeeping:  
> -In case it wasn't obvious, this first chapter takes place after the Fourth Singularity and Chateau d'If, in a lull between singularities.  
> -The segments about Dantes probably drag down the pacing a little bit, but they're important thematically so I'm keeping them in.  
> -The Artoria Guda mentions is actually Artoria Alter; since they haven't met "actual" Artoria yet they don't see a reason to dehumanize her by calling her an Alter.  
> -Characterizing Jeanne Saber without her own POV was rough and largely the reason I'm not happy with this chapter. If she doesn't seem all that different from Jeanne Ruler, hopefully that'll be rectified in the next chapter.  
> -While according to most historical records Jeanne d'Arc never killed anyone in combat—she even testified to that in her trials—most legends about the Sword of Saint Catherine-de-Fierbois also say that she actively sought it out, *and* she was actually trained in swordsmanship and fighting. Considering she was on the frontlines of battles and was despised by the English, it's safe to say that Jeanne has at least scrapped with a few other soldiers, which gives her the qualifications of Saber. In addition, Sabers are very much Heroic Spirits who are the IMAGE of a classical hero who can be granted that class out of status rather than any particular prowess with the sword. Just look at Nero. Regardless, why Jeanne Saber is so different from Jeanne Ruler on a number of levels will be explored later in the fic.  
> -Updates on this will probably be sporadic, and I apologize in advance.  
> -Any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
